The Psalmist

by James Lilliefors

  At 9:20 P.M., Ship came in and plunked himself in her guest chair, hooking his right leg over the arm. He did this occasionally, often under the pretense of needing to borrow a pen or an Altoid, but really to compare what he was thinking with what she was thinking. Fischer never did; she couldn’t recall the last time he had entered her office.

  “So, we having fun yet?” he said. His usual opener.

  “Not yet.”

  “Figured everything out?”

  “Some, not everything.”

  “Good.” Shipman exhaled as if he were exhausted. Finally, he asked his question. “You don’t think Pynne was involved, do you?”

  “No, I don’t. As I said earlier. I think Gil Rankin did this.”

  He nodded. “Why, though? I don’t get it,” he said. Then he asked a better question: “Why this way, I mean?”

  “Well.” Hunter glanced at Trumble’s old mug shot again on her corkboard, next to Kwan Park’s picture. “I don’t have it all figured out yet. Except I think they were creating a specific narrative that Jackson Pynne had helped set up an embezzling scheme involving these four ­people. Which is why there were four accounts. And then, for some reason, a conflict arose among the partners. He got greedy or paranoid and ended it. The narrative also involved a fight between Pynne and Kwan Park.”

  Ship was nodding ever so slightly, meaning he was with her. “But that’s not the real narrative.”

  “No. I think it’s designed to conceal the real narrative.”

  “Which is?”

  Hunter realized that he was waiting for her to explain what he’d probably been sitting in his office trying to figure out for the past hour or so. “Well,” she said, “that Trumble felt his organization was threatened by these disloyal ­people, that they were planning to betray him and maybe ruin him. And so he decided he needed to have them eliminated.”

  “But so—­why leave behind the series of calling cards?”

  She smiled. “We’re still working on that, aren’t we?”

  “Right.” Ship absently swung his leg up and down. “You don’t really think the sheriff or the state’s attorney might be involved?”

  “Well, I don’t know. Anything’s possible.”

  Shipman continued to watch her, his eyes hungry for more.

  “Anyway,” she said, “we should get back to work so we don’t have to speculate like this anymore.”

  “Right. Okay. Ten-­four,” Ship said, rising from the chair.

  It was at about a quarter past eleven, after Shipman had gone home, that Dave Crowe called. He’d again waited hours before getting back to her.

  “Where’ve you been?” she said.

  “Sorry,” he said. “My girl at the Post just called. She asked me what I could tell her about Ralph Rankin. What am I missing here?”

  Hunter said nothing at first. Serves you right, she thought.

  But then she summoned a reasonable tone and said, “I’m not sure what you mean.” She needed Crowe on the team, after all. Also, she was curious why the Post reporter would have asked about Rankin. Was the timing just coincidence?

  “I read the interviews with your source,” she said.

  “And?”

  “At one point, she—­or he . . .” Hunter cleared her throat and waited for Crowe to clarify, but he didn’t so she continued. “ . . . talked about being afraid of Trumble’s security guys. Pynne mentioned them, too. And Jackson gave me two specific names—­a man named Kirby, and another named Gilly.”

  “Okay, I read that.”

  “I think Gilly is Ralph Gilbert Rankin. He goes by Gil. Gil Rankin.” When Crowe didn’t respond, Hunter said, “You knew that, right?”

  “I mean, sure, we know about a man named Ralph Rankin. Security man employed by Trumble. One of about eight or nine we’ve identified over the years. We don’t frankly see him as being a big player in this case.”

  “I think he is.”

  “Why?”

  “As I just said, I think Rankin is Gilly. The big guy. And I think he did this.”

  “Did what?”

  “The murders.”

  Crowe laughed, a nasally high-­pitched sound that didn’t seem like it could have come from him. “Why?” he asked. “Because Jackson Pynne said so? Of course he’d say that. Look at what he’s facing.”

  “No,” she said. “Because of new evidence. And because it makes sense. It ties everything together.”

  “The evidence is against Pynne, though.”

  “Not any more.”

  Crowe went silent. Were his sources that bad? Hunter wondered. Or was he deliberately being steered away from Rankin by his bosses at the FBI?

  Then she flashed on something else: If Sheila Patterson was the FBI’s informant and she’d been murdered, was the Bureau now trying to cover its ass in some way? Is that what this was all about? Was that the real reason the case had to go “a certain way”?

  “What’s the new evidence?” Crowe said.

  Hunter glanced up at the trees bending in the night winds, debating whether to tell him anything. Remembering how reluctant he’d been to share information the first night he phoned. But not telling him now would be counterproductive. She needed them to work together.

  Crowe listened as she explained—­completely silent, diminished, it seemed, by these new details, recognizing not only that this evidence was going to change the case, but also that the story he had been pursuing—­about August Trumble—­might in fact be the wrong story.

  JACKSON PYNNE WAS tired but unable to sleep, tossing for hours on his tiny bed. He’d said what he needed to say to the homicide detective, but he didn’t feel good about it for some reason. Something about her had thrown him off.

  For the first ­couple of days, Pynne had felt protected here. Now, the idea of spending months, or years, in a cell with these human sounds and odors felt deeply disturbing. He wanted to be out again, speeding down the highway with the windows open, a Chesterfield between his fingers. We’ll be known by the fruit of our actions, Pastor Luke used to tell him. So our lives should be about producing good fruit. Amen, that was what it all came down to. He understood that now.

  Jackson stared at the ceiling and thought about the detective some more. Amy Hunter. He actually sort of liked her. He liked her determined eyes and her hand gestures, the set of her mouth—­the way she didn’t seem to miss anything. The way she came at you head-­on. It reminded him a little of Kwan. He liked what he couldn’t quite see, her spirit, which felt kind of brave. She’d done something to him—­infected him a little, it seemed, with a feeling that was intoxicating and maybe sort of dangerous, like the lost energies of his own youth.

  For some reason, everytime he got to thinking about his future—­or about anything serious—­his thoughts turned to the homicide detective. Amy Hunter. It was as if she knew the secret that could get his life back onto the right path. And he wouldn’t know what it was until he saw her again.

  Chapter 49

  THE CLIENT WATCHED Rankin, moving through the night shadows on the lawn of the house across the lane, and he considered what he must be thinking. What was churning inside of him.

  A whiff of doubt. Disloyalty, perhaps. Is that what I am picking up? Will you eventually join the others, Gilbert?

  He turned away and studied his own naked image in the full-­length bathroom mirror—­an image he much preferred to that of Gil Rankin. And he thought of the “others.” The tragedies their lives had become.

  Mark, you were a decent man when you came to me. But, of course, you were asleep. I woke you, didn’t I? I taught you. You learned how to think, and you became a good soldier. And a very wealthy man. For a while you believed in what we were doing; for a while you had everything you wanted, didn’t you? Everything. You told me that. But such a busy little mouth, saying all those things abou
t me, talking with the others. We finally had to remove the lips and the tongue, didn’t we? You can see now that we had no choice.

  Sheila, you had a “burning” devotion to us at one time. To me. Your words, not mine. But you were the worst traitor of all, weren’t you, dear Sheila? You wanted to hurt us, to destroy us, and God knows you tried, talking with the “authorities.” You thought it was all happening out of sight and you would never be discovered. It was quite fitting that we arranged a wienie roast for you in that wax museum, don’t you think? Yes, I know you do. Although your real fire will be an eternal one.

  And poor Katrina. Lost sheep Katrina, off on the crooked path when you came to us. I gave you a chance to find your way, and for a while you did, and you helped us, didn’t you? You found riches, you said. But your greed, Katrina, your betrayals, they earned you the chance to dig for more treasures in that pit, didn’t they?

  And Kwan. Sweet Kwan. You were so happy for a while. You, too, had all you ever wanted, you told me. Working for such a worthwhile cause, helping poor souls. But then you broke your promise and tried to run away with the corrupt Mr. Pynne. Such a bad mistake. We had to break your legs. You understand that, don’t you? Broken promises, broken legs. A fair exchange, wouldn’t you say, Kwan?

  And now your broken bones rejoice, just as the others rejoice. Because you are finally free, aren’t you? This is all as it was written. None of it is my choice. I am the Lord’s Psalmist and I have been called to fulfill the law. These are the verses that I have been asked to share—­that each of you may now consider for your eternities. Oh, it is a humbling task. I am saddened by it, but much more so by what you became.

  You understand me, don’t you, Gilbert? Or will you join the others?

  Chapter 50

  FRIDAY, MARCH 24

  HUNTER WOKE BEFORE dawn and immediately began to pull on her running gear. She needed to get her blood pumping, her thoughts alert and focused. It was suddenly cold again in Tidewater County. Bay winds gusted along the coast, spitting an icy rain, as the new sunlight spread shimmers of color through the creeks and wetlands. It was a magnificent blue morning, and she ran hard against the wind coming back.

  She fixed a protein shake and checked the news online while Winston sashayed back and forth, wanting her to gently grab his tail—­although he acted mortally offended every time she did. Theresa Kincaid’s story had been posted an hour earlier. Already a dozen news sites had picked it up.

  NEW CLUES IN ‘PRAYING WOMAN’ MYSTERY

  A series of numbers carved into the hand of murder victim Kwan Park, the so-­called Praying Woman, may hold the key to identifying her killer, police sources say. Investigators in this idyllic bayside community would not comment on the record, but sources who spoke on condition of anonymity confirmed that the numbers carved in Park’s right hand appear to be a “calling card” left behind by the person who killed her and may be connected with at least three other murders in a tristate area.

  A homicide detective investigating one of those murders said he has been in contact with Tidewater County detectives and is considering the possibility that the same killer may be responsible. He would not elaborate on the investigation, however, or on details about the so-­called “calling cards.”

  Former Tidewater County developer Jackson Pynne, meanwhile, has been held in Tidewater Correctional Facility since Thursday evening on unrelated charges, and police sources have told the Associated Press that Pynne is considered a “person of interest” in the murder of Kwan Park. However, when asked yesterday if Pynne would be charged with Park’s murder, an investigator familiar with the case said, “I hope not.”

  Ugh, Hunter thought. Well, she probably deserved that.

  But she also knew that this story would change the game. It would alter the public’s perception about what happened and probably spoil the sheriff’s and state’s attorney’s plans for a quick local resolution.

  Feeling a surge of satisfaction, she drank down the last of her shake, as Winston stared intently up at her.

  Afterward she clicked into her e-­mail account and saw that Shipman had left her an e-­mail with only a subject line: Breakfast 8:15?

  Okay, she thought. Game on.

  “HEY.” SHIP HELD open the door to McDonald’s, his mouth full of breakfast, a napkin stuck to the left elbow of his lumberjack coat. He was wearing a tie this morning with his wrinkled dress shirt and jeans. Ship was hustling now, part of the team again; she could feel how wired he was, even though his eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep. Hunter liked nothing as much as working in top gear like this.

  He’d taken the liberty of ordering her a yogurt parfait and orange juice and setting her place with a spoon and two napkins.

  “Optimistic that I’d show,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, I had to be.”

  “Why? What’s up?”

  “Two things.”

  “Okay.” Ship let her settle before explaining. He watched as she took the lid off the parfait and mixed the yogurt. A file folder was on the table beside his breakfast.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “Two big developments.”

  “Tell me.”

  He was waiting for her eyes to turn back to his. “Gil Rankin and Kirby Moss were in central Virginia the day Mark Chandler was killed. The lips and tongue case? We’ve got verification now.”

  “How?”

  “Security tape in a convenience store. The tape was pulled by Virginia State Homicide.”

  “Okay, great.”

  “The second development’s even more interesting,” he said. He wiped his hands again, pulled photos from the folder and pushed them to Hunter. One of his collar buttons, she noticed, was undone. “This was taken last night, right here, at the South Bay Market. The man in the passenger seat—­there’s a better view of him here.” He showed her, pointing. White Jeep parked outside a convenience store, the passenger door open. A big man sitting in the passenger seat. A smaller man, with a round head and close-­cropped hair, opening the driver’s door. “We think that may be Rankin on the passenger side. The car is registered to PSL Associates in Baltimore.”

  Hunter nodded. “That would be Private Excelsior Security Consultants, headquartered in Miami, Florida.”

  “Okay . . .”

  “And is the other man Moss?”

  “That’s what we’re thinking, uh-­huh.”

  “So, presumably,” she said, “unless they left overnight, they’re probably here in Tidewater County right now.”

  “Yep.” He handed her a printout, a computer-­generated map that Fischer had probably produced. “These are all of the entry points to the county,” he said. Hunter studied it, going back to her parfait as Ship went back to his pancakes.

  So, do we try to close off the county? Set up roadblocks at all the exit points? Or try to track him down surreptitiously? They were in tricky territory. She didn’t want to alert the sheriff right away—­or to alert Rankin to how much they knew. But she didn’t want him to slip away, either.

  “Tell me more about this,” she said, tapping the map printout.

  “Mmmmmm.” Ship took a moment to finish chewing. “Okay. According to the register log? They purchased beer, deli sandwiches, orange juice, sodas, and microwave popcorn. Security camera shows they then drove off to the south.

  “There’s a flashing light intersection two and a half miles down the road, at Whistling Swan Drive,” he continued. “They could have gone north from there, but it’s a long ways to anywhere. So most likely they kept going straight or, probably, took the road south.”

  “To?”

  “South is Jimmy Creek. There are about a dozen homes and two condo buildings that way. Close to eighty units, probably, although at least three-­fourths of them are empty.”

  Unless it’s a deliberate diversion, Hunter thought.
<
br />   “Were you up all night on this?”

  He shrugged.

  “You haven’t talked to the AP reporter by any chance, have you?”

  His eyes fluttered, just before he shoveled a last forkful of food into his mouth. Hunter raised a hand to change the subject. “Doesn’t matter,” she said. “Good work.”

  “Oh, and one other thing.” Shipman accelerated his chewing again so he could talk intelligibly. “You saw what the AP story said? Word’s getting out that the case against Pynne maybe isn’t going to stick.”

  “Wonder where they got that.”

  “Well, the sheriff’s ­people are conveniently blaming the task force now. For having picked up the wrong guy again. That’s the word down at the Blue Crab. It’s all over Main Street by now, I expect.”

  “But of course we didn’t pick him up.”

  “I know. I’m just saying.”

  “Okay. Doesn’t matter,” Hunter said, pretending it didn’t sting a little that the sheriff was still playing the rumors against her. He’d probably do it again when “Gilly’s” name got out to the media: Keystone Cops task force now on its third suspect. Payback for the cold case she had solved over the winter.

  “I mean,” she said, feeling a crazy rush of anger, “are we more interested in solving this crime and bringing the perpetrator to justice? Or in controlling how the media spins it?”

  Shipman stopped chewing for a moment and his eyes widened. Looking like a student called upon in class, he answered, “Solving it.”

  LUKE BOWERS WAS driving away from the coast into a clear, cold morning, Amy Hunter beside him, her leg pressed against his, her hand tightening on his thigh each time they hit a bump. Emo rock rattled the dashboard, Hunter nodding to the beat, the music so loud there was no point in trying to talk. Ahead, nothing but miles of blacktop and blue sky. But then, wham, a huge pothole; Luke’s eyes jolted open.